


Imbecile

by AndromedaPrime



Series: Commissioned Fics [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Coitus Interruptus, M/M, Sticky Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 03:37:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1729715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndromedaPrime/pseuds/AndromedaPrime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Predaking forgets to lock the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imbecile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eiseedoesit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiseedoesit/gifts).



> Commission fic for [Eiseedoesit](http://eiseedoesit.tumblr.com/). Original post [here](http://andromeda-prime.tumblr.com/post/87551726473/title-imbecile-summary-predaking-forgets-to-lock).

His breathy moans became static-laced gasps as the other mech’s glossa delved between the slick and puffed folds that lined his valve. He arched his back, gasping and clutching at the armrests of his seat. A strong servo slipped underneath his aft, lifting him off the chair, and a digit traced along the edges of his valve. Shivers shot up his spinal strut, and he rasped out a name. Whether it was Primus or the name of the mech currently performing these ministrations on him was lost on him.

“Yes my Lord. Say my name.”

Megatron felt the Predacon lift his legs up and drape them over the wide expanse of his shoulders as he continued licking the Decepticon warlord’s valve. He felt the beast smirk against him and nip at the rim, dentae grazing along a sensor cluster.

“Primus and Unicron,  _please_ ,” he moaned, helm thrown backwards and glazed over optics staring at the ceiling. His moan became a gasp again as Predaking bit down a little harder than necessary on the lining of his valve. “Do that again,” Megatron half-snarled while in his sated and pleasured state, glaring down at the mech between his thighs, “and I will make you recharge in the barracks with the troops for a stellar cycle.”

Predaking said nothing, only continuing his task of pleasuring the Decepticon warlord. His lipplates, cheekplates, and chin were smeared with the thick lubricants. To him, there was no better taste than the bitter tang of his mate’s valve fluids.

Megatron moved his legs, wrapping them around the Predacon’s helm and drawing him in closer so there was hardly any room to move away. Predaking could tell that the flow of lubricants was increasing the more he continued his motions on the wet and warm valve, a sign that his mate was so close to overload.

He would always be prideful that he could make the fearsome tyrant of the Decepticons, Terror of Kaon and of Cybertron, lose complete and utter control of himself with just the determined and hard, hungry presses of his glossa.

The silver mech writhed in the seat he was in, arching his back and moving his servos to grip at the large desk he sat at. He drew lines in the metal, but that was of no concern to him as his overload was just about to come and envelop him.

He could have sworn Predaking said that he had barricaded and locked the door to his private office just next to their berthroom, but the sight and sound of the door swinging open and slamming against the wall dispelled that belief. His spark jolted in fear at having been caught, and his optics widened in absolute terror at the sight of the tiny mechling standing in the doorway.

“Sabre! What is it?” Megatron asked his son as he tried to keep his voice even. Predaking gave another lick against the rim of his valve, and Megatron tightened his grip on Predaking’s helm, nearly crushing the Predacon between his thighs. He raised his voice slightly to cover the muffled whine of his mate. “What are you looking for?”

“Carrier, where’s sire?” Sabre pouted, his lower lipplate sticking out and his wide red optics gazing at the Decepticon warlord hopefully. “Sire said he was gonna take me flyin’. Where’s sire?”

If he wasn’t so focused on keeping his voice even and keeping a calm demeanor for his son, Megatron would have bust out laughing at the way he saw Predaking’s yellow optics widen in shock out of the corner of his optics. Yellow eyes stared helplessly at him from between his legs.

“I’m certain sire is somewhere around, Sabre. You should continue looking, but I can confirm that sire is not here.”

Sabre’s optics grew dark and he stamped a pede on the ground. “Call sire, carrier!” he shouted at the top of his intakes. “I wanna go flyin’! Call sire!”

It was at this point that Predaking decided to sneak his glossa out of his mouth and give a small lick to the valve just next to him. Megatron withheld a gasp, straightened his posture in the seat, and gave the mechling a stern glare. “Sabre, you are  _not_  allowed to raise your vocal tone at me barring any emergency circumstances. You know your punishment for such an offense; go to your room.”

The mechling glared at his carrier for a moment, then stomped off, his hard footfalls echoing down the corridor until they heard the door to his quarters slam.

Predaking nipped at the rim of his mate’s valve and savored the sudden overload, watching the Decepticon leader struggle to hold back a shout. Megatron slumped against the seat, steam rising off his frame and his fans kicking online to cool him down. The warlord’s red optics glared at the Predacon.

“You told me you had barricaded the door, you imbecile.”

Predaking smirked. “It was an honest mistake, my Lord.”

Megatron merely glared at his mate, then raised a leg and gave the Predacon a shove in the face with the bottom of his pedes, chuckling at the way the mech fell to the floor and laid beneath him.


End file.
